Sparrows and Starlings
by 1337kitten
Summary: Charity Starling is desperate to find a way out of marrying one of the captains of her father's ships. But when chance, cannon fire and perhaps a little luck brings her into the company of the most notorious name in piracy, her aims become very different
1. Identity Crisis

A/N: Hello all. This is my first story, so please be gentle with the reviews. I know that it won't seem much like a romance type of thing _now,_ but this is just to get you accustomed to the setting and so on.

Despite Samdum's advice, I'm going to compromise and set the story on the _outskirts _of Port Royal, rather than downtown or way over in Tortuga. Now, off we go!

P.S. a minion is a 4-pound cannon - i.e., it fires a 4-pound ball

* * *

The wind swept gently through the vast forest of canvas overhead, the innumerable square sails snapping in time with the lap of water against the ship's sides. A sailor straightened from the work he had been doing with some tackle, arching his back to stretch the tired, dully-aching muscles of a hard day's work. He smiled to himself, raising his arms as if to touch the sky, orange with the lateness of the day. It was so beautiful here. . . 

"Charles," called the boatswain.

The man dropped his arms, lacing his hands behind his head as he turned to look to the bridge, where the man stood. "Aye, sir,"

The boatswain shook his head, smiling as he rested his elbows on the bridge's railing. "You work like a dog all day and still manage to remain courteous," he marveled.

The sailor, Charles, grinned back. "All in the name of King and country, sir,"

The officer laughed. He jerked his head in the general direction of town. "Go home, son. All but the quartermaster and the old sea dogs have buggered off - you may as well do the same."

He saw the young man looking around at the mess that remained on deck: rope lay strewn in half-coils about the planks, an overturned bucket and mop that had been abandoned earlier in the day watched him reproachfully from beside one of the minions, and the tackle he had been since before that moment untangling was only half-finished.

The boatswain chuckled. "Never you mind, the _Steadfast _can take care of herself, that much I know. Get on home, boy, you've worked hard enough. Besides," he winked. "young fellow like you, probably have a sweetheart waiting, eh?"

Charles laughed uncomfortably, but if the boatswain noticed, he gave no sign. "Believe me, sir," he said, "there's nowhere else in the world I'd rather be than here."

* * *

The young sailor stayed perhaps half an hour more on the ship before the boatswain demanded that he go home. Now, walking leisurely down the cobbled streets of Port Royal, all he could think about was the tackle he had left tangled up on deck. . . 

He sighed. It wasn't worth worrying about. It would get done at some point.

His stomach churned as he neared the pub - it didn't have a name, because technically it didn't exist - that jutted out of one of the side-street's walls like a sore. Eyes down, keep walking, don't be afraid. . .

" 'ello, lovey," a woman's voice sounded from the doorway. "How're yeh?"

"Fine, thank you," he murmured.

"Aw, he's shy," another purred. "Don't be scared, ducky, we ain't all so frightenin' as ol' Pat here. Come on in, buy you a drink?"

His step quickened. "No, thank you. Good evening, ladies."

Nasal giggling followed him out of the street, and upon stepping onto the main road he felt as if he'd just left a smoke-filled room for a well-aired one. He heaved a weighty sigh. He really must find another way home. . .

Another few minutes of walking brought him to the back entrance of a grand estate. The wrought-iron gate stood eight feet tall, black and foreboding. He hated this gate. Someday, when the marble steps and double-paned windows and tall, white walls were his, he would tear it down. But that was a long, long way off.

Quietly he stole into the back yard, where the grass was nearly black with the lateness of the hour. _What time is it? _he wondered, not really caring. It was after dark, so he didn't really have much to worry about. James, perhaps, if he had decided to take a midnight skulk, but he was no threat. If worse came to worse, he could always claim he was a pageboy.

The servant's quarters, a small protrusion from the main floor that jutted slightly out into the lawn, would be unlocked, he knew, and let himself in when he found that it was so. He slipped through the door, keeping it as far closed as possible to prevent it from squealing. Not a one of the servants looked up as he entered; they knew who it was.

Pushing the door shut with a gentle _click_, the young man sighed heavily, leaning his forehead against it.

"Bela," he called pitifully, finally, mercifully allowing his voice to resume its normal, slightly higher pitch.

"Yes, I'm coming," The sweet Jamaican voice responded, sounding tired itself.

Bela came to his side, pulling the worn leather vest from about his shoulders. "Oh, God, thank you," the new voice breathed, rotating the aching shoulders.

Bela sighed. "I know you do not like when I say," she began, a hint of reproval in her voice. "but I think what you are doing is a very, very bad idea, Charity."

A lighter, softer sigh than before came from the girl. "I know," she said quietly. "Don't think that I don't, Bela. If he found out, he'd disown me."

Bela took Charity by one of her shoulders, looking sternly into her face. "There be more important things than what your father be doin', Charity," she said, becoming upset. "If you get caught, you will _hang_, child, do you understand? Don't -"

Bela forced herself to breathe deeply, and she said, a bit more calmly, "Don't make me lose another friend. All right?"

Charity nodded seriously. "I promise you, Bela, I won't be caught." She smiled. "And if I am, I'll just have to make a daring escape, then, won't I?"

The woman looked skeptical. "Yeah, a daring escape," she repeated, a little cynically, Charity thought. She heard, as Bela turned away to return to her work, "Let's see how daring you be when you're locked in a jail cell,"

Yep, definitely cynicism.

Charity sighed, heading for the door that would lead her into the rest of the house. "Father's sleeping?" she asked over her shoulder.

Bela nodded, brows knitted in disapproval. "He had himself nearly a whole cask of whiskey tonight 'fore he keeled over,"

Charity laughed mirthlessly, letting herself through the door.

She made her way up the back staircase with practiced ease despite the oppressive darkness. Mindful of the bits of the floor that creaked, she managed the trek through the upstairs hall and to her room without incident.

Silent as a thief she went about the task of raiding her own bureau in search of a nightgown. Finding one, she laid it on the expansive, canopied bed and began to undress. Upon removal of her shirt she sighed inwardly, bracing herself. The heavy cloth wrapped tightly about her torso never came off happily.

Delicately she pinched the outermost layer, pulling it out the few millimeters it would go before attempting to undo the miniscule yet incredibly intricate knot hidden deep within the layers of cloth. Perhaps a minute of intense concentration rendered her free of the thing. She moaned, half in pain, half with relief, as breathing suddenly became much easier and she let the wretched, yet marvelous, thing slip from her hands and onto the floor. She stretched her arms above her head gleefully in her freedom.

Yet with a downward glance this illusion was shattered. Breasts were the stigma of bondage, the eternal mark of womanhood and, thereby, restriction. That was what made the ache she endured night after night wonderful.

Hugging herself, Charity padded over to the bed, looking hatefully down at the nightgown before her. Another piece of her life that refused to go away.

She sighed, her gaze softening as she held the soft, cotton nightdress in her hands. _But we cannot help what we are,_ she mused.

_We can only defy it._

* * *

A/N: Whee! One down, several to go! I'll post as soon as possible. 


	2. Under Attack

-1A / N : Okey - dokey ! Number two is out at semi-long-last! I hope you all enjoy, and thank you so much for the wonderful reviews!

Also, something I forgot to do last time: Charity (c) me, so no using her! Jack, Will Turner, POTC, etc. (c) Disney, or whoever. Not me.

ALSO, there's a bit of sketchiness about how all this relates to the movies --- I'm setting this a little after the SECOND movie, working under the assumption that (1) Jack was recovered safely, (2) Elizabeth repented of her whorish ways and married Will (not being completely serious here --- if anyone is offended by me calling Elizabeth a whore, sorry), and (3) Those three have been out of contact for perhaps a year or more. I myself am not even _exactly _certain of the time, so please bear with me. Oh, and Beckett is gone. He, uh, got eaten by the Kraken… '

Laughing quietly to herself, Charity maneuvered the slip of cloth over her head, reveling in the half-painful, half-delightful sensation that came with stretching her arms completely out. Recalling the last thing she needed to do, she pulled at the short ribbon that tied back her hair, and the knot came undone without objection. Her hair fell just back her shoulder blades, stroking her skin lightly before coming to rest against her back.

Sighing gently Charity climbed onto the bed, but nearly fell back onto the floor as a terrible roar sounded and the entire house began to quake…

X

"Fire!"

"Again, yeh dogs!"

"Cap'n, yer sure this is the right one?"

"More than sure,"

"But… every sneak we spoke to said the kid was ---"

"And that is what makes the difference between gentlemen such as we and gentlemen such as they. They'll sympathize and commiserate up until you hand them the loot, savvy?"

"… Aye, sir."

"Right. Now hop to, set about making a mess and so on… I'll be in me cabin."

X

Charity's heart began to race. Screams sounded from the floors below --- the maids had noticed, too, she hadn't imagined it --- What was going on?

She flew to the window, pushing the heavy green curtains aside and flinging the panes wide open. Catching sight of the bay, her heart just about sank to her stomach.

There, just offshore, sat a monster of a ship --- a brigantine, it looked like, at least form this distance, carrying just as many cannon as she could hold and flying no visible colors. Her sails were black, Charity assumed, as she couldn't make them out against the night sky, and so were the planks that held her together. Once more the terrible noise sounded, and one after another the cannons of the mysterious ship sent forth bursts of white-hot light. Charity jumped as more screams, this time from people in the streets below, tore through her ears as violently as the light of the cannon fire had torn through her eyes.

_They're attacking us…_ her mind finally recognized. Her eyes grew wide as the word entered her thoughts, every honest (or, in her case, half-honest) sailor's worst nightmare: Pirates.

Why a pirate ship would decide to attack Port Royal was completely beyond Charity. Certainly there were resources to tempt them, but after the episode with Governor Swann's daughter, port security had tightened tenfold. And though Miss Swann had returned safely after _both _of the escapades, the extra security measures had remained in place at the insistence of her father.

_Wait…_ She began to grow cold. Where were the soldiers? Where was everyone who was supposed to be protecting the docks?

Charity turned from the window covering her eyes with her hands. She had to think --- what possible reason was there for no one to be taking any action against a pirate threat?

Several moments of pensive thought left Charity staring at the corner of her bed, her hands having migrated to cover her mouth. There were two possibilities: One, every single soldier of the over-one-hundred that usually manned the docks was off on other business. Or two, they were all dead.

Chills engulfed her as the latter thought began to take hold. Only a very skilled, very intelligent pirate would have thought to eliminate all of the soldiers in the town prior to raiding it…

Once again the cannons roared, and Charity turned back to the window. A small fire had started over by the pub in the side street, no doubt the first of many to come. And still the question plagued her: why would a pirate as obviously intelligent as this one want to raid Port Royal? Why go to the bother when there were other places to get what they wanted?

What the motivation might be was beyond Charity. The fact that six hulking black cannons were trained on her home was not, however.

Fearful, indignant and very unhappy, Charity suddenly found herself clothed once again as Charles, dashing through the house with a cool, purposefully set gaze. She saw none of the maids that were running around, frantically searching for a place to hide, nor was she moved by the pandemonium that was rapidly engulfing the house as she knew it was probably engulfing the rest of the town. Only vaguely was she aware of Bela's presence beside her, the anxious looks and words of caution lost on the younger woman.

"… ridiculous," Charity caught between bouts of focused deafness. "What do you think you can do, eh?… getting yourself killed!"

Charity's eyes moved to find the dark woman at her side, and she forced herself to send her a comforting look and say, "I'll see you after work,"

Despite the complete chaos around them the two were able to share a brief moment of communication, silent yet completely understood. In that moment the bright green eyes lost their defiant gleam, and Bela's shoulders drooped in resignation as her sigh was lost in the hysterical noise of the main hall.

"Be safe," Charity heard. Bela turned back into the hallway, calling to the maids and children for calm and silence.

Allowing herself a backward glance, Charity stepped resolutely through the front door, completely unopposed.

X

Charity's confusion was furthered with every step she took through the town. Yes, there was the odd fire here or there, in a shop window or on a roof, but these could be put out quickly. As she had thought, all was in complete chaos --- but for a few fires? No one obviously belonging to a band of pirates was running about, and there was no apparently severe damage from the cannonballs that had been fired. That was strange, she was sure she had heard at least four rounds fired since she had left the house, and six cannons firing four times… twenty-four cannon balls, and all of them had missed every major part of town?

Once again the cannons boomed, but Charity was spared the white-hot light --- she was running down the side street she usually took home, heading for the docks. With the sound came a primal sort of rage at the invasion of her town, her docks and ships. This was r home, and she'd be damned if she'd let any rum-swilling, God-forsaken pirates do harm to it without being punished.

As she turned back onto the main road, the waterfront came into view. Charity realized unhappily, as she dodged yet more frightened people running in the direction from which she had come, that the ship seemed closer to chore than it had when she was at the house. And bigger. It was a mountain of black planks and sails, a leviathan set next to the sleek caravels --- strange, since caravels were generally taller than brigantines, broader in their beams and with higher decks. But not against this one. The pirate vessel defied definition, an ugly duckling that had matured, somehow, into a wolf.

_No matter, _she thought resolutely. _Brigantine or whatever it is, that ship will be well acquainted with the bottom of the bay by the time the night is through…_

The ship had nudged two caravels aside to make room to set a gangplank on the wet sand beneath the dock itself. Charity's eyebrows rose. This was going to be much easier than she had anticipated.

Stealthily she moved along the beach, staying in the dry sand to prevent making a noise and to keep from leaving any tracks on the ship's planks. She ducked behind every wet, barnacle-encrusted pillar she came across in the path she took to the gangplank, assuring herself that there was no one lurking before she moved on. She crept to the plank's base, checking her surroundings before stealing up to the ship's deck.

Once again her mind was jarred by the ship's appearance. The deck was much too long and narrow to be a brigantine, yet too wide to be anything else… She shook herself, focusing on the task at hand. She had since brought out her small knife, a birthday present from Bela and the others, the long blade glinting coldly in the pallid moonlight. Making sure to keep aware of her surroundings Charity moved along the ship's length, searching for any signs of life. She winced as one of the planks creaked, and nearly jumped out of her skin at the sharp bark of laughter that followed.

"Yer a fool, lad," a low, rough voice informed her. She whirled around o find a man, broad-shouldered and perhaps two heads taller than her, that had peeled away from the shadows near the bow.

Charity's breath came in short, rapid gasps, her eyes wide with terror. A pirate… All at once the horror stories the boys had swapped below deck on rainy afternoons thundered back into Charity's mind like war horses, the fear they instilled forcing aside reason and rational thought…

X

"Stealing, lies, rape… All come natural as breath to a pirate,"

Charity listened intently, trying to mask her horror with the look of solemn contempt she saw on the others' faces.

"Amen, brother,"

"Ain't it the truth…"

"Filthy leeches, the lot of 'em," one man spoke up with fiery indignation. "While we slave away, making an honest living by the sweat off our backs, those rotten cads sail around making a mockery of what it _is _to be a sailor. Gives us all a bad reputation…"

"No regard for law and order," another agreed. "Stealing our women and burning our ships..."

There had been a collective loathing in which Charity had been unable to share. She had never known the pain of a lost love, ship or otherwise.

She had left the _Steadfast_ that day with the quiet demeanor of one who has heard of a terrible thing and yet remains, however, remotely, certain of their safety.

X

Now, faced with the immediate threat of serious bodily harm, Charity was feeling anything but safe. Without thinking she turned and mounted the ratlines behind her, scurrying quickly upwards while all the while knowing that she was doing it for nothing.

Another sharp burst of laughter. "Well, well, what have we here --- a little rat!"

She hardly heard him, a strange pounding having overtaken her ears. She had to get away --- it didn't matter where she ended up or for how long she would be safe, just that she put as much distance between herself and the man as possible…

It didn't take her long to reach the first beam set across the mainmast. Nimble as a mouse and feeling just as small she climbed onto it, peering down for the first time. The deck had turned swiftly from solid wood to a miasma of swirling black and grey, leaving Charity dizzy and swaying. She forced herself to stand, her head light with fear and disorientation, feeling her way up the blessedly solid column of the ship's mast. Looking left she saw the sea, vast and bare, the moon letting down her silver hair over the surface. Charity smiled weakly, wondering vaguely in some small part of her mind whether this would be the last time she would ever see something so beautiful.

Several moments passed before she realized she had begun to fall. Desperately she lunged out with a hand in an attempt to catch herself --- the hand that still clutched her dirk. With a sound like the rending of a person's heart the main sail was torn and Charity saw the black, swirling abyss rising up to meet her.

A/N: Okay, not as good, I know --- I'm trying to keep the story moving and not suck at the same time. It's a losing battle ;; … I'm also in a vicious battle with writer's block, which, fortunately, I seem to be making some progress in. I'll keep trying, you guys!!!


	3. Where am I

(PLEASE READ, VERY IMPORTANT!)

A/N: POTC and everything concerning it not mine.

I feel really awful about this: in the process of writing chapter two the file somehow became corrupted, so I had to re-write it. I forgot to put in, however, the part about **Alfred Winns**. Basically, all you need to know about him is that he is to Charity what Norrington was to Elizabeth. A pretty good guy (at least on the outside - that part differs a bit from Norrington ) that her dad would like her to marry, but whom she has no romantic interest in whatsoever. Actually, she pretty much hates him. It made mention of one of the many times he had tried to catch her alone to "talk," (I'll let you interpret that any way you like), so I'll try to incorporate him into this chapter. THIS CHAPTER ENDED UP BEING FREAKISHLY LONG, SO I'M GOING TO BREAK IT UP INTO A FEW SEGMENTS. SORRY IF THE TRANSITIONS SEEM AWKWARD.

P.S. This seems to be turning into more of an original story with Jack on the side - please try to bear with me. I have issues with writing things that have no logical background DX

There were mangos where Charity was. She could smell them, ripe and sweet, from the warm and smothering nothingness in which she lay, just outside the realm of conscious thought. She was consumed by a feeling of having slept much too late on a day when she had something important to do. _Just a bit longer… _she pleaded with herself.

Ignoring her own request she attempted to open her eyes. Everything was a blur, color and light smearing through one another in a wholly unappealing display. She squeezed her eyes shut again, letting out a soft moan as the pain from injuries she had sustained yawned as it, too, began to wake. Her mouth felt dry as cotton, her head was pounding like a drum, and all about her reality trundled along while she clung desperately to her sleepy calm and the sweet smell of mangos…

"Took quite a tumble there, eh?"

Charity jerked in surprise, her body protesting the movement with great sparks of pain. She turned her head gingerly in the direction she thought the voice had come from, forcing her eyes open once more. Though they were still providing her with distorted images, she thought she could make out the figure of a man reclining easily in a chair, his feet propped up.

"Where-" Her voice was rough as gravel. She cleared her throat and tried again, this time with some degree of success: "Where am I?"

There was a sound like a smooth roll of coughs - it took Charity a moment to recognize it as laughter - but she did not receive an answer. As her eyes grew more accustomed to the dim illumination of the area surrounding her, she realized that the scent of mangos hadn't been in her head; the man at her side was eating one, slicing the skin off with a knife and chopping the fruit into small pieces, popping them into his mouth one after the other.

Charity swallowed painfully, her throat dismally dry. Forcing herself to think of things other than her aching throat and stomach, she shut her eyes, attempting to work out where she was. _What is the last thing you can remember? _she asked herself. _Let's see_… There was the house, and screaming - everyone had been screaming. Why? Charity struggled with her memories, trying to find some rational order to the mess of light and dark and pain that dominated her recollections.

"… sit up?"

Charity was drawn back into reality, forced to abandon the task of organizing her muddled thoughts. "What was that?" she asked hoarsely.

A sigh. "Deaf as a post… I said, do you think you can sit up, mate?"

It took her a moment to process the question. "Ehrm, I think so…" she said uncertainly.

"If you're well enough to think, chances are you're fine," the voice said. Charity found a hand being thrust in her direction, an offer of help. Bracing herself, Charity eased up onto an elbow while raising the other aching arm to take the man's hand. He grasped her firmly, holding on to her shoulder as he attempted to move her into a sitting position. All the while Charity silently endured the flames that were licking along the inside of her skin, clenching her teeth until those, too, ached.

With a satisfied half-grunt, half-sigh from both parties Charity was coaxed into resting her back against the wall behind her. Her head was spinning a bit, her arms were wailing silently at her, but she seemed no worse for having made the move. Her vision was clearing, and she saw now that she was in an infirmary of some kind. She sat on a low, narrow bed, and several feet to her left hung a heavy curtain. Between her and the curtain there were a few more low cots, and a few feet from their ends hung a second curtain. This was pushed aside where the man sat in his chair, leaning against a small table.

He was handsome in an odd way, perhaps in his thirties, forties at most, with well-tanned skin and long, ringed fingers. His hair was something to behold, with beads, string, a few small coins, and other things Charity was at present unable to identify braided into it. He wore a red sash about his forehead, from which dangled two strings of beads and coins that appeared foreign in nature.

Her groggy examination was cut short when she realized that he had spoken to her. "What was that?" she rasped. What was wrong with her voice?

He gave what she considered to be a very exaggerated roll of the eyes. "I _said, _how old are you, mate?"

Charity frowned. How old…? And why was she being called "mate," she wondered. Such familiar - not to mention masculine - terms were usually reserved for…

Realization hit her like a ton of bricks, and Charity had to catch herself before she let the impact of it show on her face: he thought she was a man! Or a boy - likely she resembled the latter more closely. The last few years of her life rushed to the forefront of her mind with stunning clarity… The fact that she could pass for a young man even with someone whom she had never met before was enough to keep her mind happily occupied for a moment, but… Charity sat silently as everything began to piece itself together, working to keep her expression neutral as the events of the last night she could recall settled into place. She had fallen… _on the pirate ship. _That likely meant that she was… And this man, he was probably a… _Oh, no._

Charity decided that questioning the assumption that she was a boy would be an incredibly bad idea, especially if she were on a pirate vessel. With that in mind, she mumbled, "Eh…hrm…teen,"

The man looked taken aback, glancing down his nose at her skeptically. "I beg your pardon?"

_Damn…_ She cleared her throat. "Hrm… s-sixteen, sir,"

For a moment Charity feared he might call her out on the lie. He merely said, however, "Sixteen, eh? Good, a nice, strong age for a lad to be,"

Charity sighed gently, letting her eyes flutter closed in a way that made it look as though she had suddenly become very tired. She had to take stock of herself, make sure everything (her mind in particular) was working properly. She decided to start with the basics: _I am Charity Starling. I live in Port Royal with my father, Piers Starling. I'm a sailor on the _Steadfast_, and when I'm there my name is Charles… _The past several years of her life were still definitely there, good. Now for something more recent. _There had been screaming… And cannons. There had been cannons, and that's why everyone was screaming. But how did I end up here…? Ship, cannons, black… I went to the ship to try and disarm it._ Looking back she realized how completely stupid she'd been --- taking down a ship, a _pirate_ ship, armed to the teeth with bloodthirsty, time-hardened criminals, all by herself? She would have laughed at the idea, had there not been a suspicious man in front of her.

_And then she had fallen from the mainmast…_

Charity's eyes sprung open. "I should be dead," she breathed unthinkingly.

The man grinned, revealing a set of colorful teeth. "Luckily for you we were able to avoid such an unhappy turn of events. This ship happens to be the home of an exceptionally competent doctor, fortunately enough for you."

Charity looked up, frowning. "Why did you save me?"

The man resumed his seat, picking up his knife and mango as he said, "Couldn't very well let you die on my ship. Would've been an awful bother to find out who you were, where you lived, next of kin, yadda yadda…"

Charity's frown smoothed out, her expression growing cool. "I see. And thank you, sir --- your concern is truly overwhelming,"

He smiled. "You're welcome, lad. And now that you're awake," he continued, looking as if he'd suddenly remembered something. "I do think that scallywag of a doctor wanted to see you, if memory serves…"

It seemed to Charity that this man's memory wasn't a thing that served him very often, if his bemused, puzzled expression were anything to go by. He stood, saying, "I'll just go have a look and see if I can't locate the bloody doctor for us, eh? Won't be gone a moment, mate,"

He paused a second to look her over critically, then turned on his heel, heading for the flight of steps at the end of the wall to Charity's right. He stopped at the foot of them, however, his expression growing taut and his eyes wide as he saw what waited at the top.

"Bloody doctor found, captain," A new, cool voice spoke from, Charity assumed, the top of the stairs.

The man --- captain, apparently --- made a strange "nyeh" sort of noise before turning on his heel once more and heading back to where he had been sitting, the stunned expression remaining plastered on his face.

A score of footsteps preceded the arrival of a second stranger, much unlike the first (who was, at present, fidgeting anxiously at Charity's side). He was a dark-eyed, lean fellow with orange hair. He glanced momentarily to the captain before turning his flinty eyes on Charity. "This is the boy?"

"Aye," the first man said, placing a bracing hand on her shoulder. "Young master… um…"

"Blackguard," Charity finished for him, forcing back a grimace as her shoulder was squeezed. _Ow… _"Charles Blackguard, sir."

The flinty-eyed man continued to fix her with his piercing gaze. "Charles Blackguard," he said thoughtfully, his expression unchanging. "A sailor onboard the HMS Steadfast, am I right?"

Charity's eyebrows shot up. "Yes, I am," she said. _How had he known?_

"Hmm," the man muttered. "How interesting. Jack," he said suddenly, turning to the first man. "You wouldn't very much mind leaving me to my work, would you?"

" 'Course not, mate," the first man said, sounding relieved. "I'll just…"

He side-stepped his way to the stairs, a cautious eye trained on the second man. When he reached the foot of the stairs he sent Charity a look that seemed to say, _Better you than me._

Confused and very nervous, Charity looked to the second man, now her only neighbor in the infirmary. He stepped forward, taking the chair Jack had been sitting in previously. "What is your name, really?" he asked after a short pause.


	4. The Black Pearl

-1Charity set her face in a confused, innocent mask. "What do you mean? I just told you my name,"

The man gave a small smile. "Diligent, aren't we? If I didn't know any better I might actually believe you, your expression is so convincing." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "However, seeing as I _do _know better, don't you think it would be wise to tell me the truth before you are forced to tell it to a much less forgiving company?"

Charity frowned, her heart beginning to race. "I'm still not sure I understand you,"

The man pinned her with his cold, sharp eyes. "What's the bird on your family's crest --- a starling, isn't it? Is that simply meant to ensure safe passage for your ships, or is it there to represent the family name?"

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice betraying her anxiety.

The man smiled once again, a small twitch of the lips. "That really isn't fair, is it? You refusing to tell me your name and then demanding mine? Oh, you _are_ so like your father…"

On blind impulse Charity's hand shot out, gripping the man's shirt by the collar and drawing him close as she growled into his face, "Never compare me to that greedy, alcohol-soaked wretch, or I swear one of us will be meeting our end at the point of a sword."

She thrust him away, glowering as he calmly adjusted his shirt and vest. A few moments passed in silence before he said gravely, "I really don't see how you managed to keep up your masquerade so long, your temper being such as it is,"

"I've never had to contend with being pestered for my name," she said through gritted teeth. She hid her face in her hands, moaning. "What have I done?" she asked herself.

The man allowed her a few moments to collect herself. Charity came up out of her hands, sighing as she turned to him.

He cocked a brow. "At this stage I would think it's safe to assume that you are the child of Piers Starling?" he asked levelly.

She nodded. "Please understand," she said. "I couldn't use my real name onboard the _Steadfast_, and I thought… am I… this ship, is it ---"

"You are currently on the lower deck of the _Black Pearl_, a pirate vessel" the man confirmed.

Charity's gut turned to ice. The Black Pearl_…_

X

"And this… Sparrow character," one of the boys had spat. It was just another day, another lesson on ships and pirates and women. "Making himself out like he's some kind of gentleman…"

Grunts of disgust, barks of disbelieving laughter. "When you know he's just as scurvy as the rest o' his crew," a second elaborated.

Her courage built up, Charity had chanced to ask, "What's a story of his?" Every pirate had a story, and the name Jack Sparrow left Charity with the feeling that his would be especially interesting.

A particularly seasoned old dog spoke up, his voice cracked and rough as the sound of a ship's hull on a rocky beach. "Sacked Nassau without firing a shot," he began. "or so that story goes - I don't believe a word. Branded pirate by Lord Beckett himself, though that don't mean much now. I'll tell you this much, though, lad: it was Jack Sparrow what made off with Governor Swann's daughter on _both _occasions, and I heard tell that he would'a led her astray but for good Mr. Turner comin' to save her."

There were nods and murmurs of agreement. Charity frowned. "What's his ship?" If there was anything she had learned down here, it was that a pirate - or any captain, for that matter - was nothing without a good ship to back him up.

The old man grinned, craggy lips parting to reveal craggier teeth. "Oh yes," he muttered. "the most beautiful ship you've ever seen - fast as the wind, boy, with black sails that make nary a sound when she be creepin' up on her prey…"

All the men were listening raptly, hanging on his every word.

He looked around slowly at his captive audience, his eyes coming to rest on Charity as he said, just above a whisper: "The _Black Pearl_,"

The old man sat back, his bones cracking and popping as he groaned lightly. "Scourge of the seven seas. Brings down ships twice her size in a matter of minutes - or so the stories go."

One man whistled through his teeth. "Wish we 'ad a ship like that," he said wistfully.

His comrade hit him hard on the arm. "We don't need any black-magic ship in our fleet," he said hotly. "Here's what I heard 'bout the _Black Pearl_: crewed by the damned, and captained by a man so evil that Satan himself wouldn't let him into hell. You tell me when you want a ship that's been keeping a man more evil than the devil for more'n ten years, and I'll eat my own shoes."

Several of the other men began to tease and joke, saying they'd be happy to have the _Pearl_ join the fleet if it meant watching Arty eat his old, filthy shoes. Charity had slipped quietly out of the room, her lessons done for the day…

X

"The _Black Pearl_…" she breathed, her voice shaking. What would she do? How would she get home? She turned wild, frightened eyes to the man beside her. "Where are we? How long has it been since I've been out?"

The man's eyebrows rose to near the middle of his forehead. "Why do you ask?" he said evenly.

Not bothering to respond, Charity bolted from the bed, only beginning to feel light headed once she had reached the foot of the stairs. She heard the man call out to her but ignored him, stumbling up the steps into the cool, salty air above. They couldn't be far, she told herself, trying not to fall head first into the hard wood. Likely she'd only been out for a little while - it hadn't been _such_ a bad fall…

Charity had never been good at lying.

This fact hit her particularly hard when she reached the deck and saw, laid out beyond the bow of the ship, a vast, endless stretch of water leading to the horizon. No other ships in sight, no harbors, not a single sign of life off either bow.

A few of the men had stopped momentarily to look at the strange young man that seemed so hypnotized by nothing, but Charity didn't see them. She was torn from her viewing of the sea, whose beauty was lost on her, by a hand being dropped onto her sore right shoulder. _Ow…_

"Glorious, isn't she?"

Charity turned unseeing eyes to Jack. "The sea?" she said dully.

He looked surprised, as if he hadn't been expecting such an answer. "Well, yes, but the _Pearl_, mate, the ship! Like clockwork, almost steers herself." He patted the doorjamb behind them fondly.

Charity turned back to the horizon. "Captain Sparrow,"

His head whipped about, his eyes fixing her with a look of surprise which, too, was lost on the younger person. "Aye," he said suspiciously.

"How long was I out?"

The hand drew away from her shoulder. "Well, lad, as you may or may not know, head injuries such as the one you were unfortunate enough to sustain can and often do lead to very extended periods of unconsciousness. That being said…" Charity heard more than saw the grimace. "… by my estimate… oh, round about…" She almost didn't catch the muttered "week or so."

That startled her. She whirled around to face him, and apparently her expression was not a pleasing one; Sparrow's eyes widened briefly in surprise before he assumed a calm, collected air, a man telling another man that he was ready and fearless.

He wasn't dealing with a man. Charity was fully prepared to accept what she saw as an invitation to begin screaming and cursing the man to kingdom come, but a firm, grounding hand on her good shoulder stopped her.

"I really must insist upon your staying below deck, Charles," she heard the doctor say. "I'm not quite sure what being out in the sun in your state would do to you long-term."

"Right you are, Job," Sparrow hastily agreed. "Absolutely, no question. I'll just be… over there." And with that he scurried off.


	5. Notice

Good day, all (or night, depending on when you're reading this). Due to my VERY extended period of absence, my guess is that I've lost essentially all of my readers for my "Sparrows and Starlings" story. Looking back, I realize some of the limits that my writing style and spectrum of ideas put on it- I don't think it could ever have been really successful; Jack was shipped with an OC, which can never lead to much good and usually DOES lead to much angst and overt drama. In any case, I don't feel that all of the work my younger self put into the story should go to waste. To that end I have decided to put up, in roughly chronological order, the scenes/chapters that I _have_ written, with brief explanations preceding them so that the circumstances of the story left unwritten may be understood. Uploading should begin soon.

I wish you all a very pleasant read.

Yours truly,

Kondundrum (formerly shoyru31)


	6. Turning Tides

"That really was a terrible idea, running up there."

Charity didn't reply, feeling as if a her heart was dully drumming out the proclamation of her death. "What am I going to do…" she muttered to herself. "Bela, everyone, when I don't come to the shipyard…"

Preoccupied as she was, Charity remained oblivious to the strange look of open concern the doctor held as he led her carefully down the stairs, one arm supporting her about the waist while the other tenderly held her injured right arm.

Once Charity had been eased back into her bed, Job offered her some clean water from a small bowl. Charity drank thirstily, but when she begged for more Job refused. "You'll only make yourself further ill,"

Charity frowned, her haze of gloomy indifference partially lifted. "I'm ill?"

Job shrugged, screwing a top onto the jug from which the water had been poured. "A little. Sometimes when the body goes through something as traumatic as falling from a mainmast it taps resources usually reserved for other things -- which would account for your week-long sleep."

Charity nodded dully, her eyes fixed on middle space.

Job stared at her a long time. "So tell me," he finally said. "How did it come to pass that the daughter of Piers Starling began working on one of the very ships he owns?"

Charity gave a hollow laugh. "So you know I'm a woman,"

A shrug. "There are certain of the female anatomy that are impossible for a doctor to miss while examining a patient."

Moments passed in silence before Charity found the strength to reply. "I suppose,"

Leaning back against the solid wood of the ship's side, eyes pressed tightly shut, she allowed the full reality of the situation to press down upon her. It would have been bad enough to have been a woman onboard a Navy ship - men were men, wherever you went. But pirates… Nothing to lose, not a one of them with a single shred of honor or decency with which to control himself. If this doctor were to reveal her to the captain and crew…

Turning a sob into a weighty sigh, Charity stared up at the ceiling, willing her voice to remain as solid and impassive as the wood above her head. "What are you going to do?" She was painfully aware of the strangled way in which she spoke.

Job had moved the chair in which the captain had been sitting to the side of her bed, and now tipped back in it easily, a steadying foot planted on the side of the cot. "What would you have me do?"

Her eyes snapped to his face, on which she was surprised to find an expression of interest. "I would have you keep your silence concerning my gender and treat me as you would another man, until I am returned home." she said.

He nodded thoughtfully, examining her face. "What makes you think that the captain intends to return you to Port Royal?" he said casually.

A silent beat. "Why wouldn't he?" She was kidding herself…

For the first time Charity saw Job's cool expression break into a smile. "For one thing, you never asked him to," he said, letting slip a small chuckle. "For another, why on earth should he?"

Charity, perplexed, voiced the first thing that came to mind: "Because I have to go home, I have work to do."

For the shadow of a second, there appeared in the two stones of jet inlaid in the man's face a crack, a small weakening in the coldness of his eyes. It vanished nearly as quickly as it came, and the eyes regained their stoniness once more. "You'll need a better reason than that, I'm afraid. The captain is not a man to do a favor that results in his gaining nothing."

Charity gripped the sheets covering the cot. "What can I possibly offer in payment? I'm a sailor with nothing but his shirt and boots, and a damaged sailor at that." She motioned to her right arm.

Job was quiet for a moment, leaning back in his chair and looking thoughtfully at the side of Charity's cot. "Well," he said. "that's something you'll have to figure out for yourself. In the meantime, what can you do for me to ensure that I don't expose you to the captain and crew?"

Charity's heart throbbed painfully against her ribs. "I wasn't aware you required payment, like the captain," she said.

Job smirked. "You'll come to find that nothing can be gotten for free on this ship, or anywhere else in life, for that matter."

Thoughts of Alfred flitted across her mind's eye. Blood gushed sourly through her veins as she steeled herself and looked this doctor in the eye. "What do you want?"

The doctor met her gaze impassively, then, quite suddenly, a shame that Charity was sure must have been uncharacteristic came over his features, and he turned his eyes down. "A companion-"

Charity swallowed hard, beginning to steel her nerve.

"-in thought."

She blinked, her efforts at galvanizing her resolve tumbling apart. "I beg your pardon?"

The legs of the stool thunked to the floor. Job met her eye again, and she saw hints of what could have been a flush creeping across his cheekbones. "It must seem very pedantic of me to say so, but I attended a very fine medical school, and a boy's primer and secondary before it. I read and speak Greek and Latin, and some Spanish and French by necessity; I read Aristotle and St. Augustine while most men here can hardly glean any meaning from the Bible; I am alone in deep and academic thought. But you," he said, a note of excitement entering his voice. His eyes looked like stones of jet placed in sunlight. "you must have some degree of education - no, a _wonderful_ education. A man like Piers wouldn't let his daughter grow to be a simpleton. You can read, write, reason and debate."

With a visible effort and diminishing of the glow that had come over his face, Job calmed himself. "This is my condition: that you stay with me here, in the infirmary, that your gender might be more easily kept a secret and we may more privately conduct ourselves in our discussions. Should you refuse me this, I will be forced to report what I have learned to the captain."

Charity balked. "You're saying," she began slowly, suspiciously. "that if I stay here, away from the men, and talk with you, that you'll keep my identity hidden? That's what you demand of me?"

The doctor smoothed back his orange hair. "Being alone for such a long time can drive a man to desperate action, Miss Starling," he admitted, an ironic gleam in his eye.

Charity hesitated, then smiled. "This may prove to be a pleasant journey yet,"


	7. Footwork

AN: In addition to creating Charity and Job from scratch, I also took the liberty of adding a few crewmembers to the Black Pearl's ranks. One of these is Law, a brutish, crass, essentially very piratical man who took an immediate dislike to Charity. Since Jack is a man who understands economics, he knows it's unwise to waste a potential resource and puts young "Charles Blackguard" to work, first caulking the ship, then washing up, helping with meals, eventually graduating to bona-fide seaman's work. But the men are not quite so happy to let an outsider - especially one so young and potentially untrustworthy - work alongside them, and Law is the most vocal and vehement proponent of this feeling. He provokes Charity into a fight, in which she nearly draws her dirk - a bad move. Jack says that he will not have any random displays of violence towards healthy young pieces of workflesh and that "Charles" would do well to respect his elders and betters (recall that Jack still doesn't know that Charity is a woman). Law is unsatisfied and demands that Charles and he fight to first blood the next morning. Jack permits this.

The next day, Charity is defeated by superior swordsmanship and strength: Law draws first blood. This is the beginning of a lasting, cold animosity between Charity and Law. Most of the other men, however, respect the youngster for going through with the fight and admitting defeat.

Jack, again a student of economics, sees potential in "Charles" and offers, for a fee, to privately teach her the finer point of sword fighting. The fee is that his boots must be polished to a gleam every morning ;P This is the beginning of Charity's training

JACK'S POV

"You know what you're doing, I'll give you that. Good form," he said frankly, the fire in the younger man's eyes reminding him of another time, another whelp to whom he had needed to teach the same lesson. "But how's your footwork?"

He stepped to the right. "If I step here…" The younger countered the movement with a stride of his own, keen eyes trained on his adversary.

They exchanged blows, and Jack smiled. "Very good. Now I step again…"

Three times their swords clashed, steel meeting steel in the space between them, before each shifted slightly back as a lull in action took over.

Jack stared at the younger man, grinning as he saw the same blind determination he had seen in Will's face all that time ago. Suddenly he lunged, his cutlass whistling through the air, aiming straight for the boy's stomach. It was deflected, of course, and combat resumed. Back, forth, left, right, parry, thrust - the boy was remarkably skilled, despite the routine Jack had been informed he kept.

"Where did you learn to fight?" Jack demanded, sounding surprised as he was forced against the cabin's wall, a sword's point quivering beneath his chin as the lad's muscles strained to best him.

"Nowhere," was the gasp of an answer he received, Charles smirking as he continued, "You'd be surprised what you can teach yourself when you've not much better to do…"

Jack scoffed, ducking out from under the sword too abruptly for Charles to properly respond. He brought his sword down from behind, a metallic clang whistling through his ears as the boy drew his own blade across his chest in a firm block, turning just in time. He was unstable, Jack noticed; his legs were twisted around and his knees were straining.

"You've nothing better to do than knock around mannequins with a bat in the evenings?" He thrust the younger man away, resuming his guard - right leg forward, knees bent, his sword and the arm connected to it parallel to the ground. Charles stumbled back, looking exhausted, sweat dotting his brow as he struggled to pick up his guard. Jack almost felt sorry for the boy when his attempt resulted in the lower third of his sword pointing at the ground, his legs shaking and chest rattling.

Charles smiled weakly. "What else would I do? The idea of engaging the scum of high society is not one I find particularly --" He desperately dodged a swift strike from Jack, sidestepping and forcing the point of the other's sword to the ground. "appealing."

Jack grimaced, chancing a glance up at the younger man. He saw a face that looked too worried for one so young, small, taut lines forming around the eyes and frown lines surfacing in the heat of the fray. These he noticed in the moments before Charles stepped away, as if he wanted to say _Won't you just quit?_

Jack straightened, sidling away before Charles had time to strike. His breathing remained even, his legs steady, smirking as he took in the completely alternate demeanor of the boy before him. "You need to find yourself a girl, mate," He chuckled. "If your only choices for evening entertainment are stuffed-up parties and self-taught swordplay."

Charles grimaced, smiling wryly as he struggled to move into a proper en guard stance. "The company of women is not something I choose to concern myself with."

Jack looked horrified in the seconds before Charles lunged, falling once again into the easy motions of first, second and third-position blows, making room for the occasional parry. Jack set aside his abject horror at the idea of a young man not being concerned with women to concentrate, looking for the proper opening…

There. A quick sideward thrust and it was done. The boy's arm would begin to bleed in a moment.

In the seconds preceding the lad's loud half-yell, Jack heard something. It was… shrill, almost, like a sour note on an instrument that had quickly been amended. For a moment, the boy had sounded rather like…

Charles dropped his sword, letting it land with a clatter on the floor as he seized his injured left arm, a small amount of blood seeping through his fingers.

He turned his face to the ground, gritting his teeth. Jack let his sword droop, the point nearly touching the floor, wondering what he had heard.

He saw Charles swallow forcefully. "I fold," he said, voice quaking with pain and exhaustion.

Jack straightened, his sword zeroing in on the young, heaving chest. "If you fold, you die." he said solemnly.

Charles tried for a laugh, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was a sort of hysterical gasp. Another moment's look at Jack wiped the frail smile from his face. "You can't be serious,"

Jack met his eyes gravely. He motioned to the abandoned cutlass with his own. "Pick it up," he ordered.

Charles did as he was told, allowing his left arm to hang limp at his side as he slowly retrieved the abandoned weapon. Jack kept his face harsh, pitiless. "On your guard," he said.

Charles slid his left leg back, raised his right arm. Jack's shoulders slumped. He sheathed his sword, rolling his eyes. "You really are just a helpless, pampered boy, aren't ye?" he said in frustration, striding swiftly over. Charles jerked up into a firmer en guard at his approach, his eyes filling with fear. Jack stopped, making a placating gesture with both hands. "Calm, lad. That's you're problem - you must keep _calm_, savvy?"

Charles looked confused, frightened, like a hunted animal. Jack closed the small distance between them, straightening the younger man's wrist. "Keep the sword straight, if you would." He pressed against the boy's back, at the same time applying pressure to his stomach. He felt the boy jerk, likely due in part to the nervous energy he retained form the fight. "The back is kept relatively straight." he instructed. He pinched the back of the boy's knee, fighting back a laugh when he nearly buckled and fell to the ground. "Keep knees bent. Good, just like that." He tugged at his ankle, moving the left leg backwards. "You need more power behind your blows - push forward with your left leg while advancing with your right."

As he stood, Jack saw that the youngster's face was a bright, rosy-red. He clapped a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he said, "No need to be embarrassed, lad - not many can best Jack Sparrow on their first try. No need to be shameful about it, eh?"

Charles shook his head, looking straight ahead and standing stock-still.


	8. Drink Up, Me Hearties

AN: Charity has been on the ship for some time, and finds herself growing fond of the crew. This fondness only begins to take shape after she has participated in a raid. It engendered in her a feeling of camaraderie, almost family, with the others, who protected and were protected by her. The ring on her hand, which will be mentioned later, was the only loot she took.

About a month and a half after her capture, she is still taking lessons with Jack, who by now has certainly begun to suspect that everything is not all of-a-piece with young Mr. Blackguard, as we saw in the previous chapter. By now the crew have simply accepted her as a possible homosexual or eunuch, in spite of her efforts to participate in conversations about women's anatomy.

I think I meant to include this in the interest of showing Charity a new side of Jack's character, but now I feel it's just a bit confusing: there was to be a scene in which Charity attempted to kill Jack as he slept. A failed attempt, of course - showing that every pirate has at least some ninja in him, Jack was feigning sleep: he jumps up, incapacitates "Charles," feels rather hurt but recognizes his duty as a captain. In order to keep Charles from being skinned by the crew for attempting to murder their captain, Jack does not send Charles to the brig, but trusts that he won't do it again (and here the rationale becomes sticky; I had planned to back up this trust with much emotional phenangling and intricate dialogue). Thus, the relationship between captain and "Charles" has been quite tense.

Unknown to Charity, Jack is bringing the ship to Port Royal to deliver a ransom message to her father. The entire crew has been on edge all day; they don't know who exactly she is, but they know she lived in the city and was kept on the ship against her will. When they get within sight of shore, Charity demands that she be taken home at once - it becomes hard not to shriek. She grows hysterical, nearly throwing herself overboard in order to swim to shore, but Gibbs, with many an apology, holds her back. Jack says that Gibbs knows his instructions and can lead the men - he'll ensure that Charles stays on the ship. For, although her heart is on shore, he knows her loyalty has come to lie with her captain.

X

Charity sat below deck, in the infirmary, stoically whittling away at a hunk of wood. She had originally planned to turn it into something, a whistle perhaps. But now that the world seemed to be falling around her feet, a whistle didn't really seem like it had any purpose being brought into it. Her home... Just off the starboard bow and around the point of a cliff. Her father, Bela, everyone at the shipyard, they were all so close... Filled once more with the violent rage that had gripped her upon hearing the captain's plan, Charity flung the mutilated piece of lumber at the near wall, fingering the hilt of her dirk as angry tears ambled down her cheeks. She kept her sobs as quiet as possible in an attempt to stay Sparrow's curiosity, but her efforts yielded only a sore throat and the feeling of being strangled. She rose from the small, hard bed and moved to the opposite end of the room, towards the stern of the ship. Finding the coat she had left there some nights ago she threw her face into it, muffling the sobs that were quickly becoming wails as the comforting smell of salt and her sweat met her nose.

She nearly jumped out of her skin as the soft yet sharp sound of a boot's heel on the stairs reached her ears. She viciously swiped at her cheeks, sniffling as quietly as she could as she flung the coat to the floor. In an attempt to appear menacing and to discourage the man's approach, Charity folded her arms, allowing the long blade of her dirk to remain visible.

She stood unmoving as the steps slowly descended to the lower level, her breathing kept in time with the footfalls. There was only a moment of uncomfortable silence when they ceased before an odd sound started up, a sloshing of some liquid along with a light rumble. Fighting the impulse to look around as the noise grew louder, Charity forced herself to remain as still and keep her demeanor as hostile as she could. It was only with the firm jarring of something against her heel that the facade cracked and she jumped, surprised at the heavy tap. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a large, corked bottle at her feet.

"We're not all as bad as we seem, mate," was the short, muttered interruption of her miserable quiet.

Keeping her eyes down, head impersonally half-turned as Sparrow ascended the stairs, Charity stooped to collect the bottle once she was sure he had gone. Well, she thought sardonically, the lads always said that the answers to many a problem can be found at the bottom of a jug of liquor.

X

"...Drink up me hearties, yo-ho!"

Charity giggled drunkenly from where she stood, half-leaning against the rail of the ship. "That's the most ridiculous song I've ever heard in my life," she laughed, her words half-slurred.

Who ever knew that drinking could be such tremendous fun? Oh, yes, at first she hadn't wanted to go on deck, hadn't wanted to see old Sparrow lurking up in the crow's nest. But after some time spent with the bottle, Charity found herself aching for a partner with which to share in her carefree, inebriated abandon.

Sparrow suddenly took on a more serious appearance, straightening from the position in which he had finished dancing to his own song and moving to Charity's side. Through her alcohol-laden trance she was able to garner some vestige of alarm at his rapidly changed, focused expression. It quickly dissipated, however, once he raised the bottle from which she had been drinking copiously for the past two hours.

"You seem to be having your own fun in any case, eh?" he noted.

Charity laughed again, swiping the bottle from the man beside her and downing the last small portion with a satisfied "Ah." Tears sprung to her eyes as the hot, hellish drink lit her throat on fire, tears which set into motion a series of memories that only kept them coming; soon they were rolling rapidly down her cheeks.

"Oi, what's the matter," Sparrow asked, placing an arm around the younger's shoulders. Charity sniffed. "I'm sorry, Jack," she said, hugging him tightly. "I'm so sorry, I didn't really mean to kill you, I wasn't going to..."

"Ooh," he said, pulling her from around his neck. " 'S all water in the bilges. Or something," he added, looking ponderous as he groped for the proper expression.

Charity sniffed once more. "I just can't imagine why I would want to do something so awful," she muttered, sliding down to sit on the deck.

Jack followed, his arm remaining on her shoulders. "I'm sure it was just a... well, maybe some sort of father complex, brought about by...hm, not having a mother around enough of your life. Hell, mate, I dunno," he laughed. "Wasn't a very nice surprise for yours truly..." He raised his own bottle to his mouth. "From now on, though, you just 'member that you can count on old Jack."

Charity drew back, watching as the man's throat undulated with each of his gulps. "How d'you know about all that?" she asked, her brows loosely knit.

A final swallow, and the bottle detached itself from Jack's lips as he gave a half-grimace. " 'Bout what?" he asked.

"My mother," she said, insisting to herself that she not forget and amble on to some other, trivial topic. Even through the effects of the rum she could sense that something was amiss. Sparrow's expression became clouded, which came as a surprise to Charity. After so much rum she wouldn't have thought that anyone could bother to look troubled about anything.

"It's..." he began awkwardly. He sighed. "Nah," The bottle climbed upward once more. She grasped the neck of the green-tinted container, prying it away from the captain's hands. He reached across her with a plaintive whine.

"Tell me," she insisted.

X

Jack looked up into the youngster's face, seeing the purpose that had somehow broken through the barrier of intoxication built up by the rum. He wondered vaguely how the lad had become so cheeky as to play keep-away with an authority figure, never mind how he was able to keep his thoughts organized enough to form complete sentences. From what he'd gathered, Charles was not a heavy drinker - how he had come by this tolerance for alcohol was completely beyond Jack.

But pay attention, he thought. This may very well bring you the answer to that annoying question…

X

He gazed up at her like a kicked dog, likely feeling very wronged in the matter of his lost rum. But he drew back, sitting relatively straight against the ship's side as he let loose an exasperated sort of sigh. He sat silently for a few moments, staring off into nothingness, seemingly in an attempt to collect his thoughts. His head suddenly turned and his eyes locked onto hers, and Charity was rather shocked to see the amount of clarity and focus that was present in them.

"You are aware," he began in low tones. "that you are a valuable piece of loot to any man who should decide to utilize you as such, am I right?"

Charity stared at him, confused. "What?"

Jack smirked. "So young," he remarked, turning back to stare at the nothingness before him. "so…" He looked suddenly back to her. "Can I have me rum back, please?"

Charity laughed. "No. Not until I have been given a satisfactory answer as to how you know about my mum," For some reason the end of that sentence left her incapable of staying the waves of giggles that began crashing down upon her. Apparently her laughter was infectious -- Jack chuckled as he said, "You know, being captain I could render unto you some foul punishment on the grounds of insubordination..." He made a desperate lunge for the bottle. Charity scooted away quickly, laughing hard.

"Oh yes, whip out the cat on me, hm? I don't expect you even have one onboard ..." She crouched on her knees, shaking the bottle tauntingly from where she sat, about six feet from him. Jack's eyes glinted. Her challenge was accepted. And like two young boys they began to race around the deck in a game of keep-away, though rather than books or toys the prize remained the half-bottle of liquor. The game lasted several minutes (which was surprising, taking into consideration how very incredibly drunk the two players were), and Charity, her concern for the suspicious statements of before partially forgotten, made a slip whose fatality she would have no means of measuring, whose potential to bring harm to herself she would only discover once it was already raining down upon her head. She began to flirt.

Only slightly, at first, a brush of the arm here or a word there. But as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, so too did Charity's defenses against revealing herself fall, every wall and failsafe she had set up so carefully was obliterated in those moments of uncontrollable feminine urge. She was a woman, the more reckless (and at the time more powerful) part of her mind asserted, its words reinforced by the soft, relaxing smell that came from her now-loose hair - likely it had escaped its tie during the course of her sprinting about the ship. And Jack Sparrow would be the first on board to share in this revelation.

The game finally came to an end, both Charity and Jack coated with a light sweat as they collapsed to the deck's floor, laughing weakly. Charity had since found a cork to secure the bottle to prevent it from spilling while they ran about. Jack panted slightly from where he lay, a few feet from Charity. "Rum," he demanded, throwing out an arm that flopped lifelessly to the deck.

Charity began to laugh harder, propping herself up weakly with the bottle in an attempt to rise to her feet. "You never did answer my question," she reminded him.

Jack's upper lip twitched in agitation. He rolled over, struggling to bring himself to his feet.

Considering the extraordinarily inebriated states in which the two found themselves it came as little surprise that in their efforts to right themselves they both, sadly, toppled over. Right onto each other.

After a few seconds' stunned confusion, both realized what had happened. Charity, however, was quicker to react.

She kissed him. And it was in that moment, that tiny, brief moment of desire and weakness that Charity was found out for what she truly was: a woman onboard a pirate ship.

X

Jack was struck dumb by the pair of soft, delicate lips that had pressed themselves onto his. For a moment he worried that he had been wrong, that Charles was just that - Charles, a man. But when soft, brown hair fluttered down and stroked his face with light, delicate wisps of touch and smell, all doubts fled from his mind, leaving him with a dual sense of relief and of a certain humiliation for ignoring the obvious. He should have realized that Gibbs had been right, that if every informant had said "girl" and they found a boy, it should have been obvious that something was wrong.

Although, he thought, holding back a grin. His misconceptions hadn't led to anything so bad, had they?


End file.
